


Thousand Doorways

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Acting with good intentions but getting things wrong, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Quentin Coldwater, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-typical references to bestiality, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Dogs help by being dogs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Long conversations over coffee, M/M, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quentin/Therapy, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: Eliot touched his arm, his face full of concern. And the concern was the worst fucking thing in the world. Quentin couldn’t. He couldn’t –And it had all been so beautiful.Sometimes memories of trauma knock you over at the worst possible moment. They're assholes like that.





	Thousand Doorways

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Thank you to **templemarker** for a very thoughtful and considered beta, and to **capeofstorms** for her patience and suggestions. I went on to blithely ignore both of them when it suited me and remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> **Warnings:** This fic explores depression and past sexual trauma, including flashbacks to past sexual assault, past coercion and a character struggling to understand consent. As such, it may be upsetting to read. 
> 
> I am autistic, and read Quentin as autistic too. This fic isn’t about Quentin’s autism, but it felt disingenuous for me not to touch on it in a fic about mental health. Quentin has some internalised ableism and uses some ableist language here.

A little drunk, they ended up in Margo’s room. Fen curled up at the top of the bed, playing with Margo’s hair. Outside, city sounds: traffic, sirens, shouts. Inside, their four overlapping voices, the smell of Margo’s perfume, the Egyptian cotton sheets, Eliot’s hip digging into his thigh. Quentin kept smiling at Fen, the way she tilted her head and grimaced at the wine. 

He never wanted to tell people he loved them when he was drunk, so Quentin guessed the bubble of happiness inside was real happiness, that the way he adored all three of them was a genuine emotion. He wasn’t going to say it though, he wasn’t that far gone: but he curled his body into Eliot’s side, and let the bubble of joy inside himself expand. Margo couldn’t seem to help smiling at Fen; and Eliot, his Eliot, who loved him for some reason, and let himself be loved, was looking at Margo in that way he had, like she was everything. 

Quentin liked that, watching the way Margo loved Eliot and Eliot loved Margo. He didn’t feel jealous: he only wanted to cherish what lived between Eliot and Margo. He met Fen’s eyes, and she was looking at Margo and Eliot like she adored them both too. 

So he was feeling pretty good, pretty goddamn good, and it didn’t feel strange when they started kissing: Margo and Eliot, Margo and Fen, Margo and Quentin. Then Margo smiled and said, “Quentin hasn’t ever kissed Fen.” 

And Eliot said, “Well, maybe he should. Do you want to kiss her, baby?” 

And Quentin shrugged and said, “Does she want to kiss me?” 

And Fen was pink and happy, and her mouth, under his, was laughing. The touch of her skin to his, the warm sharp taste of her. Her eyes were bright; she was excited, and he could feel his happiness and hers, bleeding into each other. It felt so good in this little room, in the heart of the city, full of magic and people he loved. Like he was – a thousand light-years from everything else. The world felt open, like there were a thousand doorways, and behind each was summer. 

And then – 

and then – 

– and then he was fifteen, and he wasn’t kissing Fen any more. Instead, Luke Hadley’s tongue was in his mouth, wet, hard implacable, and his hand was on Quentin’s throat and Quentin was – trying – not – to – choke – 

He reeled back, onto his knees. Head spinning. How drunk was he? Drunker than he’d thought? The room was too small, suddenly, the bed was too small; there wasn’t any air. Fen was still smiling and – 

– and he was nineteen and Ella was telling him he was stupid, and putting her hand on his penis, the strange sharp-hard press of her nails; he was in Brakebills South and Myakovsky wouldn’t stop saying the word _dick_ , making everything about _dicks_ ; Poppy was putting her hand on his mouth and telling him to shut up; and – 

– his mouth was felt like it was full of blood. Bile. Like he was drowning in a sea of hot salt. He swallowed convulsively. There were so many hands in the room. So many eyes. No time seemed to have passed and yet he felt like he’d been pushed through a crevice and into another world. His skin was too small to cover his bones, and he couldn’t breathe. 

Fen had stopped smiling. 

“What’s up with you?” Margo said. She put her hand on his shoulder and he flinched. Then she looked into his face, and her whole demeanour changed as suddenly as though she was shaking off a coat. She said, “Q, honey...” 

Eliot touched his arm, his face full of concern. And the concern was the worst fucking thing in the world. Quentin couldn’t. He couldn’t – 

And it had all been so beautiful. 

He felt apologies bubbling up out of his throat. He was ruining this; he was ruining everything; he’d been so _fucking happy._ All he could say was sorry, over and over and over. The apologies came out like burps: meaty, sour, unavoidable. 

He wanted them to hate him. Yell at him. Fen was saying something gentle and soothing and it was – He had to get off the bed – The mattress was pulling him under, like in a dream, trying to run but being unable to move. He was sure someone was going to grab him. Hold him down. 

His legs didn’t belong to him. Shaking. He had to – He had to – His body was saying _hide_. He wanted to go somewhere small and quiet and dark and _hide._

He was still apologising. He couldn’t seem to stop. They were saying things to him, but he couldn’t process them. All he could see were three pairs of eyes, glossy, watching him. It was. Too much. 

He put his hand over his mouth. Backed out of the room. Dark in the corridor. He wasn’t sure where he was. Then he crashed into the door of the room he shared with Eliot, blinked in the dark, took two steps and collapsed into the space between the bed and the wall. 

Breathe. _Breathe_. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Everything tasted like bile; smelt like bile. 

“Baby? Can I come in?” 

Quentin swallowed; tried not to choke. “It’s your room, too.” 

“I can leave you alone, if that’s what you want.” Eliot’s voice was full of concern. The way he talked when he was concerned: words coming quickly, voice flat, as though he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get them out in time. 

Quentin bit into his knuckle. He had no idea what he wanted. “No: come in.” 

Eliot came; switched on the light. His clothes were slightly rumpled, his make-up smeared. Because they’d been about to fuck, Quentin thought. He squatted down so he was on Quentin’s level. Face full of concern, like Quentin hadn’t been the one to ruin the moment. 

“I need a cigarette.” Quentin was remembering, suddenly, the first time he’d ever smoked. Julia showing him how to hold the cigarette, patting his back when he’d choked. The winter air, the burst of heat between his fingers. The tickle of her hair on his face. The memory felt pure – safe. 

Eliot got up, opened a drawer in his nightstand, took out a pack. “I’ve got some of Josh’s pre-rolls, if you’d prefer.” 

Quentin shook his head. He just wanted nicotine. The familiar burn. Eliot lit the cigarette, inhaled, passed it to Quentin. As he took it, he realised his fingers were shaking. His jaw too. It was hard to hold the smoke to his lips, trembling fingers to trembling mouth. God. He hadn’t felt quite this awful in a long time. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

Eliot sat on the edge of the bed, beside Quentin but not next to him. Quentin liked that; liked that he didn’t have to look into Eliot’s face. “Babe.” Eliot swallowed. “You know you can say no if you don’t want to have sex, don’t you?” 

“I – yeah.” Quentin managed to get a couple of drags on the cigarette. “Yeah. But I wanted you to have a good time.” 

It wasn’t quite what he’d meant. He’d wanted them _all_ to have a good time. He wanted – above all – not to feel like _this._

“That’s not more important than what you want, though.” Eliot was speaking carefully, like maybe he thought Quentin was an idiot. That was OK: Quentin felt pretty stupid right now. He drew his knees closer to his chest, squeezing himself into a small shape. 

“What happened?” Eliot asked. 

Quentin didn’t want to talk about it. He could still taste the bile in his throat. Remember the hand on his neck. Remember – Ella’s voice, the way she’d – God, it was _years ago._ She’d just _laughed_ at him. Why did it matter? 

“I –” The cigarette was almost out. Quentin wanted another one; didn’t want to ask for another one. “I – don’t know. I was just – I remembered some bad sex, I guess. Nothing important. I don’t know. I feel kind of dumb.” 

He tugged at his hair. He both wanted Eliot to go away, and didn’t want Eliot to leave. 

Eliot sighed. He slid off the bed and into the small space beside Quentin. He took the butt from Quentin’s hand, used it to light another cigarette. Drew on it himself, then passed it to Quentin. Quentin was comforted by the small, familiar movements, and by Eliot’s shape beside him. He kind of wanted to climb into Eliot’s lap, start kissing him, convince him that he was still good, that he wasn’t going to freak out all the time. He bit his lip. But he wasn’t sure he could do that and still – breathe – 

“What kind of bad sex?” Eliot asked. Voice level. Neutral. 

Quentin didn’t want to say anything. He stared at the wall. Shut his eyes. “I guess, I – you know. I didn’t want to, but I – it happened anyway, and then I felt bad. And, I guess, bad for feeling bad.” 

Eliot took a deep breath. He put his hand on Quentin’s leg; Quentin flinched. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

Eliot folded his hands carefully in front of himself. “Like what?” 

“Like I’m dumb.” 

A faint smile. Eliot tilted his head. “But you are dumb, that’s why I like you.” 

That was comforting. That was the kind of thing Eliot said to him all the time. He drew on the cigarette again. His throat felt dry, his mouth. Even his eyes. 

“Did you tell them you didn’t want to, babe?” Eliot asked. His voice careful. Even. Like he was afraid he might scare Quentin off. 

And that was reasonable, actually, because Quentin had a strong desire to climb out the window. “I think so? I guess. They kept asking, so I let them... I mean, except one time, when I was a teenager; he wasn’t interested in what I had to say. But we were... kids.” 

Eliot looked away. “So he –”

“He what?” 

“Well.” Eliot swallowed. “It kind of sounds like he raped you.” 

“No.” Quentin felt his heart do something strange, like it was trying to climb up his oesophagus and out his mouth. He stubbed out the cigarette. 

“Q. Baby.” Eliot was trying to look at him, and it made his head hurt. “You didn’t want to have sex with them, and they did it anyway. That’s –”

Quentin thought he’d give anything in the world right now for Eliot to shut up. He’d never wanted Eliot to shut up before, but now he wanted Eliot to suck the words back into his mouth, to unsay them. 

“Stop!” Quentin coughed, tried to make his voice sound less frantic. “I mean, it wasn’t like that. Mostly I came, so it wasn’t –”

“Jesus.” Eliot’s voice hard as an anvil. 

“I don’t like...” Quentin swallowed. His jaw was still shaking. He remembered being a kid and hiding under the bed while his parents fought. If only he could still fit under there: the narrow wedge of space suddenly felt very tempting. “I don’t like it. The way you’re talking. I don’t like it.” 

His voice sounded raspy. Like he was going to cry. Fuck. Could this get any more embarrassing? 

He didn’t want to be alone; he desperately wanted to be alone. Eliot was looking at him with so much kindness. It hurt. It was like knives. “Can you...” Quentin wasn’t sure what he wanted. Then he was: Eliot’s warmth. His weight. Eliot to hold him the way they’d held each other after the Monster, when it had felt like there would never again be anything solid. 

“Can we lie down?” Quentin asked. 

“God, yes.” Eliot sounded relieved. He lay on the bed, on his usual side, held out his arms to Quentin. It was easy to tuck himself into Eliot’s body, against his familiar shape. The smell of him, the grounding scent of smoke and skin. The weight of his arms, defining Quentin’s outline. And, like this, they couldn’t look into each other’s faces. That too was a relief. 

“You know I love you?” Eliot said, very soft. “Like, beyond reason. It’s embarrassing. I should write poems about it.” 

Quentin nodded. They didn’t say it often; hearing it now meant Eliot was feeling something important, and Quentin wasn’t sure he liked that. But at the same time, it reassured him. Knowing Eliot loved him was a gift. 

“You know you can say no to me any time, for any reason, don’t you?” Eliot said it carefully, like he’d been rehearsing it in his head. 

Quentin had never thought about it. He’d never wanted to say no. People asked for things, and Quentin said _yes_. Eliot asked, and Quentin said _yes please._

“That hasn’t really come up,” Quentin said. “I mean – I know what you’re getting at. But I’ve never wanted to.” 

“You should practice.” Eliot let out a long breath; Quentin could feel it at the back of his neck. “Jesus. You should practice saying no to me.” 

Bile tickled at the back of his throat again. Quentin swallowed dryly. He squeezed the blanket between his hands. He felt – rising with the bile – a desire to sob. “I don’t like this conversation. It makes me feel like I’m going to choke.” 

Eliot stroked his back. “Do you want me to let you go?” 

Quentin flinched. No. No he didn’t want that, but – maybe Eliot would keep talking if he stayed here, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that. He found one of Eliot’s hands and gripped it. “Please don’t let me go.” His voice was shaky. He felt like he was going to start falling; falling through the bed; falling forever. 

“It’s OK, baby, it’s OK.” Eliot gripped his hand right back. 

And, almost in self-defence, Quentin started to cry. If he was crying, he didn’t have to talk, and that was something. The sobs came easily, from deep in his chest, like maybe all that nausea had really been the need to sob. Something was breaking deep inside, but easing, too. As the crying went on and on, he felt thirsty, drained, disgusting. He wanted to stop, and couldn’t. He turned, pressed his face into Eliot’s chest, tried to hold on. Eliot was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it. He could only feel the wave in his chest, rising, rising, never breaking. 

**

Quentin had stopped crying eventually; thank God – Eliot wasn’t sure he’d have been able to take much more of it. Now he was snoring very gently. Curled up on his side, looking impossibly small, his hair in his face. The snores like the sounds of a small animal – a hedgehog, a puppy. Eliot sat up carefully, trying not to disturb him. He needed a drink. 

Quentin swallowed, made a loud, stertorous noise, and said something incoherent. Eliot touched his arm, his back, and was glad that Quentin didn’t flinch, or draw away. He sighed, and began to snore again, very faintly. Eliot wished he didn’t find it all so goddamned endearing. He pulled the blanket more securely around him. 

Margo was still awake, sitting on the couch. A couple of months after they’d forced the Monster out of him, they’d got their own a place, a comfortable apartment, not as decadent as Kady’s. At the time, Eliot had been kind of fuzzy about everything, and now, realising that Margo was up late _and_ going over some bills, he felt kind of guilty. He couldn’t check out of this stuff forever. 

But Margo looked up at him, as though she’d been waiting. As though she’d stayed up to talk to him. Eliot felt impossibly grateful. And decided now was not the moment to start worrying about the electricity bill. 

“I ate Fen out, and she dropped right off,” Margo said. “She’s much easier to handle than your one.” Her voice was fond. “Are you OK? What’s wrong with Q?” 

“Let’s have a drink.” 

Margo tilted her head. He’d been drinking less, but was aware that both Quentin and Margo worried every time he consumed alcohol. His body needed more care than it once had: after the Monster’s abuse it had developed new limits. But while the others had drunk wine earlier, he’d abstained, and now the craving for a steadying glass of whiskey was intense. 

Eliot got the whiskey, poured two glasses. Margo took the glass. Eliot sat beside her, but after a moment he slid off the couch and sat at Margo’s feet, putting his head in her lap. 

“That bad, huh?” Margo petted his hair. 

Eliot cupped the glass in his hands, looked at the tawny liquid. Then lifted it to his mouth; drained it. “He doesn’t know he’s allowed to say no to sex.” 

“Well, shit.” Margo breath came out in a little hiss. “That’s a problem.” 

Her fingers remained against his scalp: cool, firm. It gave Eliot courage to say, “Do you think he said yes to me when he didn’t really want it?” 

“Tell me what he said.” 

Eliot ran his finger over his lip. “It was hard to get him to say anything. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, asking him. He – he said he’d never wanted to say no to me. But he...” Eliot took a breath. “He said he’d said no to other people, and they didn’t listen.” 

“Motherfuckers.” Margo’s fingers tightened. 

“He didn’t – he didn’t want to say raped. Didn’t want me to say.” 

He heard Margo swallowing her own whiskey. “It’s a hard word to say. Especially for people who’ve been raped.” 

“Jesus, Margo.” Eliot’s chest felt tight. 

“We’ll talk to him.” 

“Will that help?” 

“It can’t hurt.” Margo’s fingers loosened, began to tug gently at his hair. “Hey. You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

Eliot wasn’t sure about that. Also wasn’t sure his own guilt or grief really mattered right now. “Can we kill them?” 

“I’m not taking it off the table.” Margo handed him her glass. “Get me another drink.” 

They migrated back to the couch; Eliot curled up against Margo. Silent for a while. Eliot had a sudden desire to check on Quentin, as though he couldn’t look after himself. But that was the thing – he hadn’t been _safe;_ for so long he hadn’t been _safe,_ and Eliot hadn’t even known. 

“He takes meds, right?” Margo said. “So he must see someone...?”

“A therapist?” Eliot shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think his doctor just writes a prescription.” 

“Did he say – what happened tonight? What set it off?” 

“Not exactly.” As Eliot had been talking to Quentin, he felt like he’d been handling everything wrong. Now he felt even more certain of that. 

Margo sighed. “I’ll talk to him in the morning.” 

“Bambi, I don’t know if...” 

“I’ll be careful.” Margo laced her fingers around Eliot’s. “It might be better coming from me than from you. And I won’t let him brush me off.” 

**

Quentin woke, and wished he could immediately blink back to blackness. His sleep had been uneasy, full of tense dreams, but it was better than being conscious. The pillow was hot under his cheek. He forced himself upright, became aware of thirst, headache, a strong urge to piss. Eliot was asleep, arm thrown over his eyes. Quentin wanted to curl back into the side of Eliot’s chest, into the security of his arms. He also didn’t know how he’d ever face Eliot again. 

The voice in his head was loud today: _You should be dead; Why are you_ still _alive; What the fuck is wrong with you; You’re disgusting; Eliot hates you; They’d be better off without you._

He massaged his temples, went to the bathroom. Managed to piss, brush his teeth. Sat on the closed toilet lid staring at the shower. Hot water on his face, his neck: wouldn’t that be nice? But all the steps it would take: finding a towel, taking off his clothes, standing under the water. Washing. Then fifty more steps in getting out and dry. 

He staggered out of the bathroom, pulled on yesterday’s sweater, went to the kitchen and drank cold water straight from the faucet. 

Knocking at the front door. Quentin’s first instinct was to go and hide under the bed. But he splashed more water on his face and went to answer the door like a normal adult human. 

“Fuck, you look terrible.” Kady was wearing a suit, her eyes bright, face wind-blown. She looked like someone from another world. “You said you’d take Sal today?” 

Sal had already wriggled forward through Kady’s legs. Tail-wagging. Little whine-bark, because she was pleased to see him. Quentin hunched down, let her lick his chin and cheek. Felt her warm body, the energy barely contained by her skin. He wanted to tell her she was a good girl, but his voice didn’t seem to be working. 

“Quentin, are you up to it?” she nudged his shoulder with her knee. “I’ve got to go to the Neitherlands today, but I’d like verbal confirmation.” 

“The dog will be fine,” Margo said, from behind him. “Eliot and Fen are here, and they’re both members of her fan club. And I’m here too.” 

Sal wiggled past Quentin so she could greet Margo too. Margo looked like she objected to having her knee licked, but she didn’t say anything. 

“I should be back tonight,” Kady said. “Although, who knows. I have to go collect 23 and Alice now.” 

“Good luck.” Margo put her hand on the dog’s head. “OK, puppy, we don’t lick Gucci.” 

Quentin realised he was still hunched down to pet a dog that was no longer there. He staggered upright. Kady gave him another look, nodded to Margo, and left. 

“You eaten?” Margo asked. 

Quentin shook his head. Words? Words. “I’m fine.” His voice rasped. 

“Not what I asked. We’ll take the dog to the park, get some coffee and pastries on the way.” 

Alice or Julia or even Eliot could argue with Margo when she used that tone of voice; Quentin couldn’t. The puppy was nine months old now, almost full-size, but she still seemed like a baby. She’d heard walk, and wasn’t staying still. He made sure her leash was safely clipped to her harness, tugged her ears, petted the fur between her collar-bones. 

“OK,” Quentin said, to indicate he was ready, but Margo cut in, “You need a coat, and probably a hat. Pull it together.” 

She gave him both the items, and touched his cheek very softly as she did so. It was weird. Quentin preferred her brisk. 

He was disoriented. When were they? Once outside, he decided morning, maybe ten. But what week was it? What month? It was cold enough that the tips of his ears hurt. Sal skidded ahead, sniffing candy-bar wrappers, greasy stains. 

Margo procured two coffees, a bag of croissants. Sal begged. 

In the dog park, they sat on a cold bench. The light was pale, tasted like autumn. Quentin sipped coffee. It was bitter, burnt, stung his throat. He kept drinking. 

They’d let Sal off the leash. She was digging in a pile of leaves, tail and rump wriggling with excitement. Quentin felt a strange, hot rush of protectiveness: she was vulnerable to all kinds of attack, but he was going to protect her. He was going to kill anyone who came near her. It was such a potent feeling he felt tears rise to his eyes, and had to blink hard. _What the actual fuck is wrong with you_ said the voice. 

“So, honey. About last night...” 

“I’m sorry.” Quentin stared hard at the dog. “Was Fen upset?” 

“Fen is still sleeping off two orgasms and too much wine. She’s pretty damn content. I’m not worried about _her.”_

Quentin didn’t ask her what she was upset about. He wanted to apologise again, and bit it down. He swallowed more coffee. 

“Look, Q. Eliot tells me everything, so I know what you told him last night, and I’ve got to say, it’s pretty fucking worrying.” 

A tremor in his chest. On his skin: grease, oil, a bad-dirty-wrong feeling. “I’m sorry. I was making a big deal out of nothing.” 

“I can see this conversation is going to be easy,” Margo said. “Are you going to cry a lot? Should we go back to the apartment?”

Sal snapped at a leaf; turned too suddenly and fell over, chewed at her heel, stood up; suddenly zigzagging after an interesting scent. Quentin took a deep breath. “I don’t fucking know. Am I? What are you going to say to me?” 

“Hey,” Margo took his hand. “Getting mad is good. You should be mad. _I’m_ mad.” 

“Why?” 

“Because.” Margo’s fingers squeezed. “People have been taking advantage of you. It sounds like you’ve had some really bad experiences.” 

_Taking advantage?_ That sounded wrong. It hadn’t been great, that time with Luke. Or Ella. But they’d been kids. It had always been – fine. He’d felt lucky that they were paying attention to him. Always acutely aware that he was _different_ , that he fucked up around people no matter how hard he tried not to. His parents had sent him to an occupational therapist once he’d been diagnosed with autism, and he’d hoped so hard it would _fix_ him, make him like the other kids. But still, he did the wrong thing and the cold lump remained in his stomach. He’d hoped it would ease if he just gave in to people. That he’d be one of them if he just let them touch him. 

“Look, honey. It happens to way too many people. It hasn’t happened to me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t sympathise.” 

“Nothing’s happened to me.” Quentin put the coffee on the ground, because his hand was trembling again. God _damn_ it. “Nothing important.” 

“What set you off last night?” Margo asked, voice surprisingly soft. “What were you feeling?” 

“I don’t know.” He chewed his lip, tasted bronze. He wanted to – bang his head into the wall, until he only saw white, and all other feelings were erased. He hadn’t felt like that in a long time. “It’s stupid,” he said, his voice sounding so strangled it made him feel like he was back in middle school, struggling to get words out. 

“Hey. It’s not stupid. OK, maybe you’re an idiot, but you’re _my_ idiot.” She let go of his hand, and linked her arm with his instead. Used the other hand to pick up croissant. “So tell me about it. I won’t get upset, or hate you, or anything your brain might be telling you. I’ve heard people propose threesomes to sloths. I don’t judge.” 

Somehow, watching her bite into the croissant helped. It was normal. Sal, attuned to the rustling of bags, ran back over to them. Begged again. “People should not be teaching this dog to ask for treats,” Margo complained. “I bet it’s Penny.” 

Then she was silent; and so he was he. She nudged him. “Talk to me.” 

“Last night, I...” Quentin swallowed. “Fen felt so good, kissing her felt so good. Being with all three of you felt... I really liked it. Then I fucked it up. Like always. It was like I forgot where I was, and I was with... other people. Times when I’d had sex and it hadn’t been good.” 

“What was it like?” 

“The sex?” Quentin’s hands were trembling harder. He wanted to sit on them. He took a piece of croissant, gave it to Sal. She ate it and surged up towards him, scrambling onto his lap. He hugged her. 

Margo rolled her eyes at them. “When you remembered it.” 

“Oh.” Quentin shrugged. “I felt like I was going to throw up.” 

“So it was pretty bad, then, huh?” 

What was he supposed to say to that? He leant his chin on top of the puppy’s head, smelling her: a clean-dog smell, like dough rising. She was warm against his cold hands and face. 

“If thinking about something someone did to you makes you want to throw up, I think it’s safe to say that you didn’t want it to happen. It doesn’t matter if you were the same age, or you were at a party, or whatever.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry, Q, this is clearly upsetting you. But I need to talk to you about it because we fuck, and I need you to know you can say no to us. Or anyone. You don’t have to fuck people if you don’t want to, OK?”

“I _know_.” Quentin said, pleased his voice sounded kind of pissed off. 

“Do you?” Margo took another bite of her croissant. Chewed. “Because I’m not sure, sweetie, that you do. Have you ever talked about this stuff? Like, in therapy?” 

Quentin shook his head. “I’m sorry I freaked out. I think you and Eliot are making too big a deal out of this.” 

“And I think you’re trying to deflect,” Margo said. “And I also think maybe we should find you a good therapist.” 

Quentin thought about therapists: enforced eye-contact, too-warm rooms. All the dumb things they said. “Therapy’s kind of bullshit, Margo.” 

“Will you go? If we find you someone?” 

Quentin shrugged. He ducked his head down, into Sal. “I think she’s cold. We should go home.” 

**

Soft, familiar press of Quentin’s face against his. Little huff of Quentin’s exhaled breath. Leg catching between Eliot’s thighs. Eliot yawned, blinked, threw his arm over Quentin’s torso, pulling him in, in. It was late, he’d been sleeping heavily. Eyes focusing slowly: room lit orange by Quentin’s bedside lamp. Quentin’s hair between his fingers: tangled, greasy. The faint sour smell of Quentin’s skin. Little ragged uneven snuffles. 

Two nights had passed without them touching, and now: this. 

“Are you crying? Baby?” Eliot stilled, hand clasping Quentin’s shirt. 

“Can’t sleep,” Quentin said, and pressed his face up against Eliot’s. Kissed him clumsily. Tang of his breath, tug of his teeth. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Quentin tangled his fingers in Eliot’s hair, kissed his neck, side of his throat. “I want to – have sex with you.” 

Eliot wasn’t hard, slid his thigh up between Quentin’s legs, felt that Quentin wasn’t either. “Why?” 

“Fuck.” Quentin pressed his face into Eliot’s neck. “Can’t I want to my boyfriend to get me off? Is that weird?” 

“It’s not.” Eliot pulled Quentin closer. Tried to force himself into wakefulness. The narrowness of Quentin’s rib cage under his arm, the way Quentin instinctively tucked his head down under Eliot’s chin. 

“Everything is so weird, and I can’t sleep, and I thought – We’re good at having sex. If we fuck, maybe I’ll feel normal, and I want –” Quentin pressed his face up into Eliot’s. Bite of lip, nuzzle of nose. God – Eliot loved him, loved even the musty smell of his hair. 

“We are very good at fucking,” Eliot agreed. Sat up, took a breath. Put his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, cupped his head. Crush of hair between his fingers. He drew Quentin in, kissed him, tongue, teeth, wet breath, until both their mouths tasted the same way: bitter, sleep-sour. And Eliot’s body responded, heat in his groin, heat in his chest. He wanted to pull Quentin to him, bite his neck, his chest, rut against him – fast, sticky, the endless loop of body to body, skin to skin. 

Quentin was thrusting up into him, breath quick, almost frantic, tugging of Eliot’s shirt, fingers scrabbling at the waist band of his pyjamas. “Are you OK?” Eliot asked, suddenly frightened, staring into Q’s wide eyes. 

“Shut up, I’m fine,” Quentin said – an edge to his voice. Anger? Hysteria? He kissed Eliot again, thrusting half-hard cock into Eliot’s groin, his hip, and Eliot tugged Q’s hair, bent his head back, felt Quentin’s answering shiver. 

_Are you?_ Eliot’s stomach twisted. Quentin looked up at him, big brown eyes, lips open. 

“Let me get my pants off,” Quentin said, breaking his gaze. Fumbling inelegantly with his clothes. Then, naked, squirming on Eliot’s lap, pushing him back onto the bed. 

The sheets tangled and sweaty under them. The rush of it – open mouthed kisses, rough nips to each other’s skin. Rasp of stubble. Cramp in Quentin’s bad arm, so they had to change position. Then again when Eliot couldn’t get the angle of his cock against Quentin’s hand right. Eliot’s body was tired, slow to respond, and yet – it was good, familiar, comforting. The slap-slap of hand on cock. The feeling of Quentin’s body squirming against his. He was present, whole, biting at Eliot’s lip. Wanting it. Urgent. 

When they’d both come, a mess of fluid on their stomachs, Eliot took the opportunity to say, “Let’s have a shower.” 

Because he felt gross, and Quentin clearly hadn’t been showering. But Quentin shook his head, said, “I think I can finally sleep now,” cleaned himself sloppily with a tissue. Rolled over. 

Eliot wanted to spoon him, but wanted to clean himself up properly more. When he came back to the bedroom, wet-haired, skin warm and smelling of citrus, Quentin was asleep, eye-lids flickering with dreams, feet twitching. Eliot wanted a drink. 

It was 5.45 am. He poured whiskey, sat on the sofa. He wished Kady hadn’t come to pick the puppy, because he wanted her soft-warm weight in his lap. She’d probably want him to take her out though, and he only wanted to sink into the couch. He pulled out the laptop that had belonged to Julia and that she’d passed on to Quentin. Opened the account Quentin had set up for him, and tried to figure out what to google. 

_My boyfriend is depressed: what do I do? My boyfriend is more depressed than usual. My boyfriend is traumatised. Help._

Sipped his drink. By 6.30 am, he had seventeen tabs open, and a headache. 

**

A rabbit arrived from Fillory: it wasn’t a call for help. Josh was handling things. But it made Margo edgy anyway, and Fen looped her hands around her neck, said, “Let’s look at knives and go dancing,” and Margo said, “You know what? That sounds perfect.” 

Quentin didn’t move from the couch. No one asked him to until Julia came over. He thought Eliot had invited her, because of the way they shared a nod, like he’d called in reinforcements. 

Quentin felt like he was made of sand, and it hurt when Julia grabbed his hand, hauling him up from the couch, and said, “Let’s go get coffee.” 

Press of traffic, wall of sound. Pulse beating in his temple, like a moth trapped in glue. Julia’s arm linking in his. She passed him a cigarette, and they strolled slowly towards the vegan cafe she liked. 

“You remember you gave me my first cigarette?” Quentin said. 

“I’m a horrible influence.” 

“You made me feel so much cooler than I was. We used to hang out in that graveyard near the middle school: it was very goth.” 

Julia laughed. “I’d talk about all the kids I hated, and you’d talk about Fillory...”

“And then I’d go to occupational therapy, and you’d go to a flute lesson.” 

Julia brushed her hair out of her face. “God, I was so fucking bad at the flute. I wish Mom had let me take drum lessons.” 

That made Quentin snort a little bit. “I’m sure you would have rocked it.” 

They found a small table in a corner of the cafe. It was crowded: smell of coffee, warm bodies; steamed-up windows. Noise intensified, a roar in his ears: Quentin suddenly felt more solid, as though he’d been walking outside of himself for hours, and had come back to his body at last. His hair felt greasy, his tongue furred. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been wearing these particular clothes. 

Julia talked about the work she was doing for the Library; about Kady and Alice’s project with the hedges (“They’re not teaching them, it’s collaborative. Alice was kind of pissed to realise they know a lot of things that aren’t in any spell books, and then she was excited about it.”); asked him about Fillory. 

“Margo’s coordinating with the bears. We’re never more than one step ahead of the usurpers. We wouldn’t be here except Fen needed a break,” Quentin said. “And I promised Kady I’d dogsit.” 

He thought: _Maybe I’d feel better in Fillory._ And then: _There’s nothing worse than being clinically depressed while constantly exposed to opium._

“I should visit.” Julia rubbed her face. “I’ve been so busy.” 

“Hey.” The words were suddenly on his tongue. Almost unbidden. “Do you remember Luke Hadley?” 

“That asshole.” Julia shuddered. “Didn’t you have a crush on him?” 

Quentin felt – cold suddenly. Like water was trickling down his spine. The smile in Luke’s eyes. Luke’s ass when he’d bent over at his locker. The smell of his skin when he’d brushed up against Quentin. 

“Don’t look so upset!” Julia put her hand on his wrist. “We’ve all had crushes on total losers.” 

“We had sex,” Quentin said, the words tumbling on top of each other. He reached for his coffee, almost spilt it. 

Julia’s mouth froze in a half-smile. “Did you? When?” 

Quentin shrugged. “We were – kids. It was at a party, sophmore year, I think. It was Halloween. He – I was hiding in a bedroom, and he found me.” 

“You didn’t tell me.” Julia tilted her head. “Jesus. Luke, that asshole. Was that your first time?” 

Quentin nodded. “He – I was so excited. I wanted to kiss him, and I – He tasted like beer, and he was so... He was really sweaty.” He felt his lips twist, remembering. Beer, musk of sweat. The noise of the party downstairs. Quentin’s headache, his I-Am-Such-A-Loser feeling. “And he kept – saying all this bullshit, like _You’re pretty hot for a little professor. Don’t you want to have a real high school experience? Or does only math make you hard?_ And he put his hand on my neck...” 

Julia hand remained on his wrist. A light touch. She wasn’t looking into his eyes, because she didn’t, because she’d always understood about that. She sipped her coffee. 

“I stopped wanting him to kiss me. I said – I don’t know what I said. I tried to get up. I remember how much I’d hated that party, but suddenly I wanted to be back there so bad. And I was...” His mouth dry. Taste of bile. He didn’t want to tell Julia that he’d got hard. Because of Luke’s hands on him, cock responding to the rough fingers. Like his body wasn’t his own. “Anyway. He jerked me off, I jerked him off. Whatever.” 

He stared at the coffee mug. Glint of light on his spoon. “He kept – putting me down. I had a bruise on my neck from his hand, I had to wear this itchy turtle-neck for days and I...” Quentin trailed off. He – what? He got over it. Thought he’d got over it, anyway. 

“Jesus.” Julia was squeezing his wrist now. It hurt. “That’s... I knew he was an asshole, but fuck.” 

Her was voice familiar. The way she shaped words. He’d known her for so long; she’d understood for so long. Quentin dug his fingernails into his palm, but kept talking. He felt like he was stepping outside of his body again, listening to himself: this stranger. 

“I had a panic attack when I was with Eliot a few nights ago. And... I told him about Luke, and some other stuff, and he’s been making a big deal out of it.” Quentin’s teeth dug into his inner lip.“I wish he’d get over it. It’s not really a big deal.” 

A long silence. Julia let go of him, wrapped her fingers around her mug. The greyish froth of almond milk dripping towards her finger. “That’s what you want me to say, right? That it’s not a big deal?” 

Quentin’s pulse jumped in his throat, high and thin. “Yeah.” 

“Q, if it feels like a big deal, it’s a big deal.” She was staring into her latte. “Look. If it had been me at the party, if Luke had found me, what would you say had happened?

Quentin opened his mouth. Closed it again. Because he wanted to say, _If it had been you, I’d say Luke assaulted you._

But 

he couldn’t say 

anything 

at all. 

Julia’s eyes were shining. Like she was close to crying. It made Quentin want to cry too – because he’d upset her. Because she’d _really_ been raped, and he was making a big deal out of nothing. Because he was fucking everything up. Luke had been 15; he probably wasn’t an asshole now. He was probably bi, and messed up about it. _Quentin_ felt like an asshole for making Julia think about what had happened to her. 

“It’s OK, you don’t have to say anything.” Julia’s voice caught. She found his hand, suddenly, wrapping their fingers together. Squeezing. “I know it’s hard. I know, Q.” 

“I’m sorry, I –” Quentin bit his lip. He kind of wanted to say, _I’m sorry I exist. I’m sorry you have to know me._

“I’m glad you’re talking to me. I think we probably don’t... do that enough.” 

Quentin swallowed. Tried to smile. “Hopefully next time I won’t make you cry.” 

She shrugged. “Maybe next time we’ll both cry. That’s OK. Q...” Her fingers hot and tight around his. “It’s really hard. I know.” 

“I hate it.” He wasn’t sure exactly what he meant. Everything, maybe? Everything. How hard it was for her, for him. 

“Me too. It’s...” Julia dabbed at her eyes. “It turns out being alive pretty much sucks all the time. But it’s maybe better than the alternative.” 

“That’s dark.” The words were came out a little easier. The sound of other conversations. Laughter. Spoons clanking. He was pulling himself away from what Julia had said. Not allowing himself to look. Waters closing back over the monster. “I thought I was the dark one.” 

“You don’t own it.” She was smiling too, but her eyeliner was smudged, her voice rough. 

**

_You fixed him. He actually showered,_ Eliot texted Julia.

A long pause before she replied. Then: _Be gentle with him._

Eliot wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Was he not being gentle with Quentin? What had he said? He decided not to overanalyse it. Because analysing confusing texts was for fourteen-year-olds. 

“Do you think the palace cooks could make these?” Fen said, flopping onto the couch next to him. 

“Pop-Tarts?” Eliot watched as she delicately nibbled the edges. “No one really likes Pop-Tarts. They don’t taste of anything.” 

“I like the texture.” Fen’s tongue darted out, licking at the filling. “Josh could probably make them. Anyway. We should get back to Fillory.” 

Eliot’s stomach tightened. Wondered if he could cope with disasters and palace intrigue right now. And what would Q need, other than his Abilify? 

“Margo and I thought you guys should probably stay here.” She folded her hands carefully, looking at him. “Quentin’s more of a mess than usual.” 

“He had a shower,” Eliot said, defensively. The shower thing had become an issue for everyone. “And he always feels better, when he’s got something to do.” 

“Fillory’s not just a place for him to hide when he’s sad.” 

Fen looked... a little angry. Eliot told himself to proceed with caution, then didn’t. “No, it isn’t. It’s pretty traumatic there, most of the time.” 

A long silence. Eliot heard Margo humming in her room. A drawer opening and closing. Then Fen said, “You still don’t think of it as home, do you?”

This was a much harder conversation than he was ready for. He wanted a drink; knew he probably shouldn’t have one. Rubbed his temples. Wished he could rewind back to the Pop-Tart portion of the conversation. “It’s... You’re my family, you and Margo and Quentin. Of course it’s home.” 

“That’s not the same thing.” Fen sighed. “Look, Margo and I know what we’re doing. We’re usually better at it than you are. Um. Full offence, like Margo says. You’re safer here.” 

“You think we need protection?” Eliot was surprised by the vehemence in his tone. “We’ve always been fucked up – it’s not new.” 

“I do. I do think you need protection. That’s not bad, Eliot.” Her tone was sharp. She was always smarter than he gave her credit for. 

“Jesus. I’m going to talk to Bambi.” 

He went to her room, found she was packing. “Did Fen talk to you?” 

Eliot sat down on the edge of her bed. Wanted to curl up in her arms. Watched as she sorted through make-up, battery packs. He felt all the fight go out of him. 

Perhaps it had never been in him at all. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“I think you’ll both be a liability in Fillory.” Margo carefully slotted bottles into a wine tote. “I won’t stop you coming. But maybe you should take some time?” 

“Because we broke Quentin?” 

Margo snorted. “He was already broken. Just – take a minute. Join a book club. Take up weaving, or chess. Go on a hike.” 

_Take a minute. Rest_. She kept saying that to him, ever since they’d defeated the Monster. It made him feel itchy. It made him want to prove that he was still the same person, still just as tough and just as fucked up as ever. But he also felt very tired, and had new limits to negotiate. Sometimes just curling up with Q seemed like the only manageable course of action. 

Book clubs, though? He snapped, “What? Bambi, all of that sound _horrible.”_

“Borrow Kady’s dog then.” Margo shut her eyes. “Do some beautiful magic. You’re both miserable enough for it.” 

Eliot lay back on her bed. He sighed dramatically: it was satisfying. “So you’re kicking me out, then. Deposing me.” 

“You’ve already been usurped, dumbass.” Margo lay down next to him. Joined hands with him. Tickle of her hair against his cheek. 

“So have you!” 

“Yeah, but I’m banging King Fen. You should go to Ibiza.” 

“Q would hate Ibiza.” 

“You’re right: he’s boring as hell.” Margo sighed. “He’s just lying in bed right now. I’d say he should get drunk, but he’s even boring when he’s drunk. And you know he’s more fucked up than usual, because he hasn’t even asked where we’re going.” 

Eliot sighed. Rolled over, hugged her, arm settling over her stomach. Tucked his head against her neck. “This is really hard. When can we stop developing as people?” 

“I don’t know, honey.” Margo kissed his forehead. “It sucks, doesn’t it?” 

**

“That therapy practice you called emailed over some forms.” Eliot pushed the bedroom door open.

Two days into living by themselves: he missed Margo, he missed Fen. Their conversations, the sound of laughter. At least Kady had brought Sal over: she was lying on the bed with Quentin, a circle on his chest. 

And she was pleased when he came into the room. Squeak-barked. Rump wriggling. 

Quentin made a noise deep in his chest. Sat up. Lips moved. He kept – apologising. Eliot hated it. Came to dread starting a conversation, because somewhere at the beginning, Quentin would apologise. And then again in the middle, and at the end. Hunching into himself. Like he wanted to erase himself. Like he’d been during his first year at Brakebills. 

_I thought we were making progress. I thought I was making you happy._

“Fuck,” Quentin said. “Forms.” 

He looked bleak. More than the usual forms-are-boring-as-fuck bleak. 

“I can help?” 

Quentin’s shoulders tightened. “So, what, you want to know my entire psychiatric history? All my attempts? What my occupational therapist said when I was thirteen? Maybe you should talk to Julia about how tragic I was; how hard it was to be my friend.” 

“Baby, that’s not –”

“Yeah, I’m not being fair. I don’t feel fair.” 

Sal pressed herself to the bed, ears down, at Quentin’s tone. Eliot sat beside her, rubbed his fingers into her fur. Put the folder onto the bed next to Quentin. “You can fill this out without me. As long as you fill it out.” 

A long silence. Sal’s tail beginning to wiggle, her nose pressing into his thigh. Quentin snuffled, scrubbed his face with his hands. 

“I don’t think I will, if you don’t make me.” His tone was raw. Eliot wished he could make Quentin stop feeling like this. Chew up and swallow down the dumb letter from the dumb therapist. “And I think I want to... try.” 

Eliot left one hand on Sal, reached for Quentin with the other. Petted his hair with the same round motion of thumbs that Sal liked. 

“We’ll go to the park after,” he said. “I’ll buy you ice-cream.” 

“I’m mentally ill, I’m not five.” A pause: “Actually, I would like ice-cream. Anything but pistachio.” 

“OK, baby.” Eliot opened the envelope, unfolded the form. Quentin passed him a pen from the night-stand. Shut his eyes, flopped back onto the pillow. 

OK: so he was going to be heavily involved in this. Eliot looked at the page printed with little boxes. He was sure he’d filled something like this out before. Brief memory of a too-warm office, a woman in a pant-suit, patronising voice. It hadn’t helped. He rubbed his eyes. 

“Pre-existing conditions: major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, autism spectrum disorder,” Quentin intoned. Eliot paused; scribbled; paused. 

Quentin’s eyes opened. “You’re spelling spectrum wrong, there’s an r.” 

“We never talk about...” Eliot sighed, inadvertently smudged the ink. “The autism. I know you told me that when you were a kid it was hard, but... I thought maybe it was over, now you’re an adult?” 

“Jesus, Eliot.” Quentin sighed. “Can’t you google your boyfriend’s embarrassing brain problems? It doesn’t go away.” 

“Oh.” Eliot wanted a cigarette. “Well, you never talk about it.” 

“It’s not what exactly I lead with. What am I supposed to say? _Let me go down on you, honey, by the way everything’s too loud and I can’t tell where my skin ends.”_

“Having sex isn’t the only part of being with someone, though.” Sal rolled over onto her back, paws paddling at the air. Eliot rubbed her tummy. “It’s not even a very big part. I want to know what’s going on with you.” 

Quentin put his wrist against his eyes.“Look, it’s... I’ve always been embarrassed about it. It’s always been the thing that makes me weird and unlikeable; that made the other kids pick on me. I thought... When I went to Brakebills, I thought maybe I’d never been autistic at all. It was just what being a magician was like. And then I figured out I was wrong about that, but it was easier to hide it than... talk about it.” 

Eliot wasn’t sure what to say. _But you should have told us: then we would have known you couldn’t help being so weird?_ But they had known, hadn’t they, that he couldn’t help it? And they’d still laughed at him. But they’d loved him too. He, Eliot, had loved him too. 

“I like you the way you are.” Eliot didn’t look at Quentin. Kept his eyes on Sal. “A weird idiot.” 

Quentin snorted. “Thanks. What’s the next question?” 

Eliot looked back at the form. A couple of questions about past psychiatric care, medications Quentin was taking. Questions about suicide. Then a few about trauma and abuse. 

Maybe a Questing Beast could appear right now, or at least a messenger bunny? 

Or maybe Sal would need something? 

But he had to keep going, didn’t he? He had to be solid for Quentin. That was the whole point. 

Eliot put the form down, and rolled onto his side, facing towards Quentin. He put his arm out, over both Sal and Quentin, and scooted a little closer, pushing Sal into Quentin’s side, and his face into Quentin’s neck. The dog wriggled, yipped, and scrambled up onto Quentin’s chest. Quentin took his hand off his eyes, rolled to face him, kissed Eliot’s forehead. 

“Turns out the first question was the easy one,” Eliot said. 

“Sounds about right.” Quentin put his arm over Eliot’s shoulders so he was cuddling Eliot into his chest. Eliot wasn’t often in this position: Quentin usually slotted into Eliot’s body, not the other way round. Eliot felt surrounded by Quentin’s limbs, Quentin’s smell. Almost stifled. He could hear Quentin’s heart under his ear, feel Quentin’s breath in his chest. 

Quentin pressed another kiss to Eliot’s forehead, stroked the back of Eliot’s neck. It was nice. 

“Hey.” Quentin’s voice gentle. “It’s OK. I’ve done this before. I’m a pro.” 

“I’m supposed to be comforting you.” 

“I think we comfort each other. I think that’s the deal. Sometimes it’s super inadequate. But then there are dogs to help.” 

Eliot nuzzled close, closer. Sal made a small sound of protest as his arm disturbed her. “I really love you a lot,” he said, the words feeling small, inadequate. 

“I know, baby.” Quentin’s chin dug into the top of his head. “It’s OK.” 

**

While Eliot was walking Quentin to the therapist, Julia texted: _Bring him to a bookstore after. And make sure you have cigarettes._

_I know how to look after my own boyfriend!_ Eliot snapped back immediately. 

Looked at his message, and hers. Wrote, _Thanks, Julia._ And sent _xxx_ for good measure. 

The therapist’s office was above a tattoo parlour. Posters of landscapes and animals lined the steep flight of stairs. Eliot felt far too tall as he stood in the doorway behind Q. He wanted to follow him up those stairs, into the waiting room, into the therapist’s office, even. He wanted to summon all his regal might and say, “Don’t you dare hurt him.” 

Quentin paused. “You can go home, you know. You didn’t even need to come this far.” 

Eliot put his hands into his coat pockets. “Or I can come up.” 

“Please don’t. Don’t stand around like an avenging angel. It’s sweet, but it’s making me feel weird. I’ve been going to therapy by myself for fifteen years, El.” 

Indeed, Quentin looked nervous and edgy, but no more nervous and edgy than he usually looked when he was outside of their own space. He looked resigned, almost bored. While Eliot longed to take at least two mind-altering substances. 

“I’ll go get a coffee.” Eliot sighed. “I won’t be far.” 

“If you want.” Quentin was ascending the stairs, past all the posters, all the inspirational quotes. Like he was going into another world. “I’ll text you when I’m done.” 

**

After, Quentin felt: wrung-out, skinless. Like there were ants in his throat, crawling around and around, and he didn’t know how to get them out. Frieda had been... helpful. She’d talked to him like they were two adults trying to work out a problem. 

Once they were past the introductions, she’d asked what brought him here today. He hadn’t known how to untangle it, but he’d blurted out something like: _My depression’s worse than usual because I freaked out while trying to have sex._

She’d helped him give words to what he’d been feeling. And she’d said things like, _It wasn’t you fault._ Asked him questions like, _What do you think it looks like when someone consents?_

And Quentin had wanted to get under the table, lie on his back and hit his head and heels off the floor and scream. Like he’d done as a kid in counsellor’s offices.

Outside, a brisk wind blew into his face. The cold against his cheeks was refreshing. 

He texted Eliot, but relished the few moments when he was alone, outside the tattoo parlour. A pretty girl with two nose rings was cleaning the window. Someone inside sang very badly. Quentin thought about doorways: clocks opening into woodland, winter shrubs revealing summer and collegiate buildings, the black water of a fountain licking over his eyes. He thought about Fen’s smile, Margo’s, the way people kept opening their arms to him. And sometimes it was terrible, and sometimes it was beautiful. 

Eliot swung around the corner of the block. He was walking fast. As always, he seemed more alive than anyone else around him. Or like he was constantly followed by a spotlight. Quentin wondered if loving Eliot made him seem like the most vibrant person anywhere, or if it was simply Eliot’s magnetism. And a little part of him was still amazed when Eliot’s lips quirked, just for him, and it was around his shoulders that Eliot wrapped his arms. 

“How was it?” Eliot said, suddenly motherish, anxious. 

Quentin shrugged. Terrible. Frustrating. He’d probably go back. 

“Therapy,” he said. 

“Come on, that’s not an answer.” 

“It was hard. It’s always hard.” 

Eliot nodded. Kept his arm around Quentin’s shoulders. Kissed the top of his head. “There are two used bookstores nearby, I looked it up. Do you want to check them out?” 

“You hate hanging out with me in bookstores,” Quentin said. 

“I really do. But I really want to help. So enjoy it while it lasts, OK?” Eliot guided him down the block. Quentin leant into his side, knowing it was safe to let Eliot steer him.


End file.
